


About Bruises and Breakfast

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Arthur gets hurt on a job and Eames takes him home to recover. It’s nothing to fuss about, really. He just likes Arthur. In a professional way. Like a colleague. It’s not like he’s about to fall in love with Arthur or something.





	About Bruises and Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This story is betaed by [deinvati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati), thank you so much!

 

The thing is, Eames has always liked Arthur. Like a friend.  
  
Well, that is a goddamn lie. They aren’t _friends._ They’re colleagues who share mutual respect, trust and, dare he say, admiration. Also, they try not to express that verbally in any circumstances. They’ve done together, what, more than a dozen jobs, and Eames can fucking count the times Arthur has said anything actually nice to him, besides _weather is nice_ and stuff like that, because sometimes even Arthur tries a little small talk. It’s adorable, his tiny face trying to soothe that frown, when at the same time even _the sun is shining_ sounds like an ironic comment, coming from his unhappy mouth.  
  
Eames isn’t _bitter_ that Arthur doesn’t give him compliments. Of course not. Not at all. He _knows_ Arthur likes him like he does Arthur, which is, with professional admiration. And trust. And respect.  
  
But the thing is, all that professional admiration, trust and respect is now messing with his head. Big time. Really big. And it’s almost entirely Arthur’s fault. Of course, Eames knew this particular job was going to be a bit tricky. If he’s being honest, there’s no way he would’ve gotten into anything like it if it wasn’t for Arthur. He’s not exactly poor these days, is he? He can afford not to do shady jobs for clients who have a known tendency to express dissatisfaction through violence. But he hadn’t seen Arthur in five months, and that’s a bloody long time, alright? It’s not that he thinks of them as friends, because he _doesn’t_ , because they _aren’t,_ but the thing is, Arthur’s one of a few people still in their business who have been there for a while and haven’t quit, or died, or crossed Eames. These days, it sometimes feels like all there is left are the new faces and the idiots, so it’s no wonder when Arthur called and asked Eames to do this job with him, Eames said yes. And, it’s not like Arthur does shady jobs. At least not now, when Cobb quit ages ago and isn’t around to lure Arthur into doing every fucking impossible job he can find. So, Eames thought it’d be okay.  
  
But it’s not okay. Not. Not at all. And he’s so bloody angry at Arthur right now, only he can’t figure out a proper way to express it, because Arthur’s, well, Arthur’s not good, no, not at all. Arthur’s sitting on the backseat with Eames, no, not even sitting, the bastard looks like he’s going to crumble over any minute now, so that his head will be in Eames’ lap, and wouldn’t that be wonderful, wouldn’t it, with all the blood that’s running from his nose. Fucking idiot. They really kicked the shit out of him, didn’t they, and he should know better. He shouldn’t take those kinds of jobs anymore and he shouldn’t fucking drag Eames into them with him, because Eames can’t watch this, he _can’t_ , he can’t fucking bear the sight of Arthur with all those bruises slowly becoming visible and the dried blood all over his stupid white shirt, who even wears clothes like those to the jobs like theirs anyway? There’s blood in his mouth and on his chin, and Eames is just wondering if the fucker can even fucking breathe. Maybe Eames should wipe off some of the blood on Arthur’s face. Well, Arthur would fucking tell him off, wouldn’t he? Surely. Arthur would never let Eames touch his _face,_ not even when he’s all bloody and half-conscious on the backseat of the taxi.  
  
“Sir,” the driver says, his voice only slightly nervous, “sir, are you sure that I should take you to the airport and not to, I don’t know, perhaps the hospital?”  
  
“Just take us to the airport,” Eames says and takes the cleanest napkin he has. At least there’s no blood on it. Yet. He wipes Arthur’s chin and mouth and nose with it, very carefully because Arthur’s going to fucking punch him in the face for touching him, that’s for sure.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, his eyelids flickering.  
  
Well, Arthur would surely punch Eames in the face if he wasn’t half-dead. It’s interesting, really, how even Arthur turns out to lose his edge when he’s in serious pain.  
  
“You fucking idiot,” Eames says, but softly, because Arthur’s looking miserable enough already, isn’t he? “You should’ve known better.”  
  
Arthur blinks at him and then falls a few inches towards him and hits his elbow on the seat apparently to stop himself from falling all over Eames, his whole face going all wrinkled from the pain. Fucking idiot. Goddamn fucking idiot. What can Eames do at this point, anyway? He can’t fucking do anything besides trying to get Arthur out of the country in case there’s more where this came from.  
  
“Sir –”  
  
“The airport,” Eames says to the driver, as Arthur falls half-way onto his lap. He wondered sometimes if this day was ever going to come, only he never thought Arthur would end up in his lap because he couldn’t fucking stay conscious. He pulls Arthur’s hair from his face, carefully enough that it shouldn’t hurt. The poor fucker is sweating like hell, of course, Eames is as well, and Arthur’s day had been twice as bad as his. And there’s more blood and it’s now dripping on Eames’ trousers. Well, he never liked the colour anyway. He only wore them to this job because he knew they’d drive Arthur mad. And it worked. Arthur had thrown glances at him, subtle enough that maybe he wasn’t supposed to notice, but he noticed, alright? He notices most of what Arthur does, or so he likes to think at least. He’s very observant when it comes to Arthur.  
  
“Sir –”  
  
“Just -,” Eames begins, but it turns out that they’re at the airport. Thank God. He half-drags, half-carries Arthur out of the taxi and to the pavement and through the doors to the men’s room, where he ignores all the questioning faces and a cleaner who looks like he just got his first job and didn’t think it would include seeing bloody men dragged to the sink and pushed against the wall. Eames tells the kid to sod off and luckily, he does. And it’s not like Eames is pushing Arthur against the wall for fun. Not that he hasn’t thought about that, too, sometimes. But it’d be completely different. Arthur would be able to talk, for example. Now Arthur’s only looking at him, his eyelids flickering in the bright light, as Eames tries to stop the bleeding and clean his face. It doesn’t go very well. After a surprisingly long time he realises it’s easier if he’s not trying to keep Arthur standing against the wall, so he lets Arthur sit on the floor instead. Arthur looks disturbingly small, though, and very unhappy about sitting on the public bathroom floor in his fancy trousers, but Eames can’t fucking fix that now, can he? But he tries to fix Arthur’s face, and then his clothes so that he doesn’t look like he just almost died. They’ve got a flight to catch, after all. Or they don’t yet, but Eames is going to buy them two tickets to fucking anywhere that’s not here. Well, preferably somewhere warm and sunny where the booze is cheap and the doctors are good.  
  
He buys two tickets to Edinburgh.  
  
“Where’re we going?” Arthur says when they’re heading to the gate. Arthur doesn’t look like he’s alright, not exactly, but he’s kind of walking with his own two feet with only light support from Eames, and he doesn’t have blood on his face. “You can’t come with me.”  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says, “and try to look like you aren’t going to die on the plane.”  
  
“I’m not going to -,” Arthur begins, but then the bastard winces and cuts it short, which is good because Eames isn’t going to argue with him. There’s a tiny streak of blood running from Arthur’s nose. Eames wipes it off with his thumb and Arthur glares at him. Good. The bastard’s going to be just fine.  
  
It’s a mild surprise that they are allowed to get onto the plane. A happy surprise, of course. Eames sets Arthur in the seat next to the window and sits down beside him. It’s not exactly how they usually do things, but then again, Arthur’s already been beaten, so what worse can the client fucking do to them, kill them? Well, if he’s being entirely honest, Eames doesn’t want to die, not now and not with Arthur dripping blood onto his shoulder, which the bastard’s kind of leaning on, which is kind of nice because people don’t generally tend to lean on Eames’ shoulders, oddly enough. He likes to think he has nice shoulders. Oh, goddamn. He’s babbling, isn’t he? In his head, which is surely worse. Maybe he’s a little nervous. He’s too old for this kind of mess. And for a second, he thought Arthur was going to die on him, back there in the abandoned office building where Eames wasn’t supposed to be in the first place, because he wasn’t supposed to come with Arthur, because Arthur wanted to see the client alone, the idiot, and it’s a good thing that Eames gives zero fucks about what Arthur wants because otherwise Arthur would be still there, sitting on a lonely chair with blood all over his clothes and looking like a broken marionette. Or maybe they’d be still kicking Arthur in the ribs. Oh, shit. _Shit._ Maybe they were planning to shoot -  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says, “hi, I –“  
  
“You’re drooling on my shoulder,” Eames whispers at him. Not that he minds. And it’s mostly blood anyway.  
  
“I can’t –“  
  
“You fucking can.”  
  
“We should –“  
  
“I’m not going to let you go anywhere alone now,” Eames says, as quietly as he can, and he fucking thinks he knows how to be intimidating even when he’s talking quietly, which he totally does, because Arthur shivers. Great. “Probably I’m not going to let you go anywhere alone for a long time, because you can’t fucking take care of yourself, can you? If I hadn’t come back…”  
  
“I would’ve gotten out somehow,” Arthur says. His voice is hoarse and broken.  
  
“Don’t talk,” Eames says, mostly because he doesn’t want to hear Arthur, when the bastard sounds like he’s in pain. Hopefully Arthur thinks Eames is just tired of hearing his stupid thoughts. “Just don’t talk. You can’t do anything about this now. Or are you going to jump off the plane?”  
  
Arthur tries to laugh, so in a second there’s more blood on Eames’ shoulder.  
  
“Don’t laugh,” Eames says. “This is my best shirt.”  
  
Arthur snorts with utter disapproval. Thank God. Eames places his hand on Arthur’s knee, which he probably shouldn’t, because Arthur’s not alright enough to give his consent and Eames likes to think he’s good with things like that, he’s a gentleman even if he’s certainly capable of hiding it in case that’s what turns his partner on, but consent, consent is important. And it’s not like he has trouble finding people to sleep with, is it? It’s not like he has trouble finding people who let him have his hand on their knee. But Arthur’s just looking so tiny and grumpy, and he’s certain that tomorrow Arthur’s going to firmly deny ever having leaned on Eames’ shoulder, and isn’t that adorable? Well, it is. It’s very adorable. Professionally adorable. Like everything in Arthur.  
  
Eames keeps watching Arthur, but there’s no sign of Arthur wanting to get rid of Eames’ hand on his knee.

 

**

 

“Edinburgh,” Arthur says in a flat tone.  
  
“God, you’re observant,” Eames says. It’s raining. Of course it’s fucking raining. He should’ve known better than to come here. They could be somewhere sunny, in a nice hotel room. “I’m going to get us a cab.”  
  
“Why Edinburgh?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“It’s not like you have a flat here,” Arthur says slowly. Well, then. Arthur hasn’t been poking his nose in Eames’ business as carefully as he could have. That’s slightly disappointing. “You do,” Arthur says a moment later.  
  
“Just remember,” Eames says, “that right now I could be in a nice hotel in a nice place where it doesn’t rain all the time, drinking whiskey and spending all my money on, I don’t know, terrible clothes.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says in a voice that’s a bit too serious.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “I just meant, shut up.”  
  
“Why did you come back?”  
  
 _Fucking hell._ “I forgot my umbrella.” He had a bad feeling. That’s it. A bad feeling about the whole fucking job and Arthur meeting the client face to face afterwards, alone. Maybe it was just that he’s not a goddamn idiot, like Arthur apparently is. He can tell when something’s off.  
  
“Really -,” Arthur begins, the stubborn idiot, but then Eames manages to get them a cab and Arthur’s got to drop it. Thank God. He came back because he didn’t want Arthur to get hurt. That’s it, and Arthur should know that already, even if they don’t say things like that aloud. And it’s not personal, well, not entirely personal, strictly speaking. Eames just doesn’t want Arthur to get hurt because he professionally admires Arthur.

 

**

 

It’s quite clear that he didn’t think this through. He’s not going to bring Arthur to his home, fuck no, the sheer thought is just ridiculous. He doesn’t bring anyone home, and the flat in Edinburgh is more of a home than any of the other flats he has. This is the place where he is bored and dull and reads books and doesn’t gamble much and hardly ever has sex with someone other than himself. This is the place where he has personally bought furniture over the years, so that there are things he’s bought when he didn’t have, well, neither money or taste. It would be a terrible mistake to bring Arthur here, only it’s a shame he’s thinking about that now that they’re already at the front door. Beside him, Arthur’s standing almost on his own, oddly quiet for fucking once, as if also he’s realising Eames has made a fucking bad mistake this time and can’t really fix it anymore.  
  
Well, then. They can’t keep standing at the front door like two idiots.  
  
He opens the door and wonders briefly if he ought to go first. There’re plenty of people who’re angry at him and it’s not an unthinkable scenario that one of them has found out where he lives and is waiting for him. It has happened before. He should go in and check. But then again, there are people who’re angry at Arthur and might want to shoot him at Eames’ front door, if they found him standing there alone, and Eames isn’t going to let that happen.  
  
“Get in,” he says and watches Arthur walking to his flat. His ears are kind of ringing a little. He must be very tired. And then he closes the door, and there they are, at his home, kind of.  
  
“Fuck,” Arthur says. He must be thinking about the same thing. Then it seems that he pulls himself together, tries to put on his usual frown but is a bit too much in pain to really succeed in it. Eames appreciates the effort, though. Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it and sways like he’s going to faint.  
  
“Bloody idiot,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur by the arm and dragging the bastard to the living room, “you can’t just stand there like that, you’re fucking injured, that’s what you are, you should be lying down. Go to the sofa.” He puts Arthur on the sofa and pushes the sweaty hair from his face. “I’ll make you tea.”  
  
“Maybe alcohol,” Arthur says, blinking at Eames, staring at him, and it’s terribly funny, isn’t it, seeing Arthur lying on his sofa. Terribly funny but in a frightening way. “You decorated this by yourself?”  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says.  
  
“Terrible,” Arthur says. He sounds happier than maybe ever, if you don’t count that one time when Eames had to wear a proper suit for the job and he was there to see it.  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says again, but quietly this time. Then he goes to put the kettle on. Tea and whiskey, that’s what Arthur’s going to get, and maybe some biscuits, if there are any. He’s going to have to go to Tesco tomorrow. As soon as Arthur’s well enough to go with him. He’s not going to leave Arthur alone, is he, or the bastard’s probably going to get himself shot on Eames’ favourite carpet. Then again, his favourite carpet is in his bedroom, and there’s absolutely no reason why Arthur would be in his bedroom, is there? And _then again_ , where is Arthur going to sleep, anyway? Eames can’t fucking put him in the guest room, can he? The bastard could, well, drown on his own blood, couldn’t he? Or sneak off into the night. Actually, that’s quite probable. Arthur’s exactly the kind of an idiot who would sneak out when Eames is sleeping, just because he can’t bear the idea that someone’s taking care of him, not even when the said somebody is doing it for professional reasons only. Because he admires the idiot professionally. And doesn’t want him to die.  
  
When Eames gets back to the living room, Arthur’s asleep on his sofa. It’s quite adorable. Goddamn.

 

**

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” says the nurse, “unfortunately we can’t let anyone but close relatives –“  
  
“I’m his goddamn husband,” Eames says without blinking. The nurse stares at him. Probably Arthur stares at him as well, from the wheelchair where they put him when Eames brought him to ER. He definitely can’t risk a glance at Arthur now, though. He raises his eyebrows at the nurse, just slightly, trying to express his concern that perhaps, just perhaps, the personnel in this hospital has some hidden prejudices concerning a gay man who’s accompanying his injured spouse, and wouldn’t that be disappointing, in modern Scotland.  
  
“Fine,” the nurse says, “you can go with him.”  
  
Eames is quite certain he can see Arthur rolling his eyes but then again, Arthur probably has a concussion. To be entirely honest, Eames had kind of forgotten about that until Arthur threw up on his carpet an hour after the tea, the whiskey and the biscuits. After that, they had a brief argument about Arthur going to the hospital, which Eames won by carrying the idiot to the car. So, now they’re here, and the staff takes Arthur to one of those white nasty-looking rooms and closes the door quite firmly, and Eames sits down in the nearest chair and tries to breathe steadily. He hates hospitals. It’s not like he has anything against them, they’re just terrible. He’d never go to a hospital voluntarily.  
  
Half an hour later, the door opens and the doctor comes out, wiping her gloved hands on the hem of her white coat somewhat absent-mindedly, and Eames stands up without meaning to. Surely the doctor would seem more concerned if Arthur wasn’t going to be alright? Not that Eames is _worried,_ though.  
  
“Ah,” the doctor says, “you must be the husband.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says. His voice comes out oddly tight.  
  
“He’s going to be just fine,” the doctor says with a kind smile. “We’re going to keep him here for a few hours. You can take him home in the evening, but you’re going to have to wake him up at night every two hours.”  
  
“What if he doesn’t wake up?”  
  
“Don’t worry,” the doctor says, “but if he doesn’t wake up, you should call an ambulance.”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Eames says, and for a second he thinks there’s a smile on the corner of the doctor’s mouth.  
  
“You could go in for a few minutes,” the doctor says, nodding towards the closed door. “It’ll make you feel better.”  
  
“I’m feeling fine,” Eames says, but the doctor just raises her eyebrows at him and then walks away. Goddamn. He’s fine. Also, he doesn’t know why he’s clenching his fists so tight. He swallows a few times and then knocks on the door, and a nurse tells him to come in.  
  
He _hates_ hospitals.  
  
“I hate hospitals,” he says to Arthur, who looks like he’s fucking _dying_ , lying on that terrible hospital bed connected to all the stupid wires, and they only do that to people who’re going to die, don’t they? Fucking _hell._ Eames shouldn’t be here. He hates -  
  
“I’m going to give you a minute,” the nurse says, frowning. “Just a minute. And don’t make him tired.”  
  
“You can’t leave him like that,” Eames says to the nurse, “he looks _terrible._ ”  
  
“Come on,” Arthur says in a surprisingly soft voice for a man who’s about to die.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” the nurse says and fucking _winks_ at Arthur.  
  
“My husband?” Arthur says when they’re alone.  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says. There’s that machine that beeps with a steady rhythm, just like in the films, and certainly the rhythm is going to falter any minute now, and it’s going to go faster and faster until there’s the sound that tells that Arthur’s dead -  
  
“So, you’re terrified of hospitals,” Arthur says in an easy voice. “Funny.”  
  
“I’m not -,” Eames says and then realises he’s been staring at the fucking monitor that tells him Arthur’s still alive.  
  
“Come _on_ ,” Arthur says, barely audibly. It’s unnerving. All of this is unnerving.  
  
“So, you’re alright. They told you you’re alright, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You aren’t going to, I don’t know, you aren’t going to get worse.”  
  
“Well, I’m going to have to rest,” Arthur says, frowning. “I have a few broken ribs and a concussion.”  
  
“You can stay at my place,” Eames says and clears his throat. “For a while. Since you don’t have a place anywhere near.”  
  
“I thought we were married,” Arthur says and smiles, and it looks goddamn stupid because his face is all swelling and bruises.  
  
“Well, that, too.” Eames takes a step towards Arthur’s bed. He’s not going to hold Arthur’s hand or anything, fuck no. He just wants to see that Arthur’s really alright. “What did you tell them?”  
  
“The truth,” Arthur says with a quick glance sideways, and well, the security camera in the corner. “Exactly how it happened. I got beaten up because I was making out with you in public.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Eames says. “You didn’t.”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, watching him. “I’m not ashamed. The bastards who did this should be.”  
  
“Of course,” Eames says quickly, “I just meant. Oh, fucking hell. Didn’t they wonder why I’m alright? I wouldn’t want them to think that I just left you and ran.”  
  
“I told them we went in different directions,” Arthur says, “and these bastards followed me. Obviously, they knew they’d be in trouble if they tried you with all your muscles and, you know, hard look.”  
  
“They picked you because you’re so tiny,” Eames says, “you poor thing.”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says somewhat grudgingly. Well, it’s his story. He can blame himself.  
  
“God, these thugs,” Eames says, “always going after the weak ones.”  
  
“Indeed,” Arthur says, and now there’s something warning lingering in his eyes.  
  
Eames smiles. Thank God Arthur’s going to be alright, and besides that, Arthur’s going to be so angry at Eames for calling him a _weak one_ , and _so tiny_ , and it’s going to be bloody great. Maybe this evening, when he brings Arthur home, Arthur’s going to be well enough to properly snap at him about it, and then they’re going to banter, and it’s going to be brilliant.  
  
“Oh, darling,” Eames says, “if only you knew how to fight, despite being the tiny thing you are. Maybe I should teach you.”  
  
Now Arthur’s just glaring at him. It’s too bad that’s the moment the nurse knocks on the door and comes in, telling Eames that it’s time for him to go home and have some rest.  
  
“Fine,” he tells the nurse, “but before I go, can I at least kiss him?”  
  
“I don’t see why not,” the nurse says.  
  
 _Consent_ , Eames tells himself, _consent is a thing._ He turns to Arthur. “Honey? Your face doesn’t hurt too much, does it?”  
  
For a second, he’s certain Arthur’s going to tell him to fuck off. Nicely, though. Then, for a second, he’s certain Arthur isn’t, and isn’t that terrifying?  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “no, it doesn’t. Come on. Give me a proper kiss, like you always do.”  
  
Oh, fucking hell.  
  
It’s not like Eames’ heart is beating faster. He’s kissed people before, okay? Plenty of people. And he’s not been dreaming about kissing Arthur, not often anyway, and always fleetingly. And he’s not _frightened_ of Arthur, not at all, even though Arthur’s staring at him with the kindest smile that turns his guts cold. And. Well. Maybe it stirs something else in him, too.  
  
“Okay, then,” he says, leans down and places his hand very lightly on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur flinches anyway, probably from the pain, which wasn’t at all what Eames intended. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Arthur says, “honey.”  
  
Goddamn, this is unnerving. “So, I’m just going to kiss you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “go ahead.”  
  
He gives Arthur a quick kiss on the mouth like a coward he is.  
  
“Pathetic,” Arthur says against his mouth, quietly enough that the nurse probably doesn’t hear.  
  
“I’m going to kill you later,” Eames says and then kisses Arthur again, just because he’s right there and doesn’t seem to mind too much and also, they’re already married. “Not really, though.”  
  
“I’m looking forward to it,” Arthur says with the voice of a person who’s looking forward to getting home from the hospital, to be with his husband. The nurse is trying to hide his smile but doing a bad job of it.  
  
“Well, then,” Eames says and rushes out of the room.

 

**

 

It’s been an odd day. It’s not like Eames has been worried about Arthur, not really, because he knows there are doctors and nurses who’re taking care of Arthur, and besides, Eames himself couldn’t do much except wipe blood from Arthur’s face and keep him awake. He’s not a doctor. So, maybe it’s just the waiting that has been making him so itchy. He tried to clean up a little and then went to Tesco and didn’t know what to buy, so he bought everything he could think of, and then he went back home and tried to watch television but couldn’t focus. Maybe it’s possible that he and Arthur are something like friends. Professional friends. It’s been years since Eames has had real friends, so he doesn’t really remember what that feels like anymore. But Arthur, he wouldn’t mind Arthur sticking around for a bit more, which is a good thing, because he’s not going to let Arthur leave now, not with a concussion and broken ribs. He’s going to fucking tie Arthur into the bed if he needs to – well, he definitely isn’t. Arthur would shoot him. And besides, the only scenario in which he’s going to tie Arthur into the bed is if Arthur asks him to. Nicely. With some desperation in his voice.  
  
Well, he probably shouldn’t be thinking about that now.  
  
Anyway, he’s terribly relieved, when it’s time to go to the hospital to get Arthur out of there. He even chats with the receptionist, who’s clearly gay but yet in the closet and keeps watching Eames like he’s the first human male the kid has ever seen.  
  
“You’re waiting for your husband,” the receptionist says, after Eames has told him that he’s waiting for his husband.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yes, indeed.” Fucking hell. “Shook me up pretty badly, this whole mess.”  
  
“But he’s going to be alright,” the receptionist says, a question in his voice.  
  
“Yeah. Definitely. It’s just, we’re very… he’s so…” Eames swallows. “I like him.”  
  
The receptionist blinks at him.  
  
“I love him,” Eames says, “so much, because we’re married.”  
  
“Oh,” the receptionist says, leaning over his desk. “So, you met each other…”  
  
“Through the job,” Eames says. “We’re working… in an office. And he always wore these stupidly white shirts, like… like someone who takes his job very seriously. And he has so many odd habits, like, he keeps his desk clean, and who the fuck keeps his desk clean? I don’t. But he did, he _does_ , and well, every time I teased him about it, about anything, he snapped at me, and he’s so witty, you know? So clever. His insults are brilliant. And he’s so good at everything he does. He never makes mistakes and if he does, he wallows in them for months, which is stupid, but then again, he’s an idiot. But in a good way. And he’s so good with guns –“  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
“Toy guns,” Eames says, “I meant toy guns, because we don’t shoot for real, do we? That would be _absurd._ People would get _hurt._ We don’t want that. And did I mention that we work in an office?”  
  
“In an office?” Arthur says.  
  
Eames turns. A nurse is holding Arthur by his elbow, a different nurse than earlier. Eames walks to them and grabs Arthur’s other elbow so that the nurse knows he’s got it from here.  
  
“I have to sign something,” Arthur says, so Eames comes with him to the desk, mildly interested to know which name he uses to sign. _David Smith._ Nice. A very forgettable name.  
  
“Come on, Dave,” he says and places a hand on the low of Arthur’s back. Arthur shivers. _Consent_ , Eames thinks. “Is this okay, darling?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says with a voice that’s tired but surprisingly sincere, “yeah, it’s fine. Can we just go?”  
  
“Sure,” Eames says. “Let’s go home.”

 

**

 

“So,” Eames says, probably for the fourth time in a row, “ _so,_ you’re okay.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, sitting on Eames’ sofa, the back of his head leaning against the wall. His hair is messier than Eames has ever seen it and if he’s quite right, there’s still dried blood in it. “Stop that. I’m fine.”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“You’re worried. You don’t need to be.” Arthur glances at him. “It’s kind of sweet, though. But unnecessary.”  
  
“They said I have to wake you up every two hours through the night,” Eames says, “to see if you’re still alive.”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Arthur says, but it almost seems like he’s smiling a little.  
  
“So,” Eames says, because he apparently doesn’t know how to say anything else anymore, “what do you want to eat? I bought everything.”  
  
“Why did you come back?”  
  
Oh, fuck. He stands in the middle of the living room, looking at Arthur’s who’s staring at him like he really wants to know.  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“Why did you come back, Eames?”  
  
“I just came back, alright?”  
  
Arthur’s just fucking staring at him.  
  
“I had a bad feeling. That’s it. You shouldn’t have taken the fucking job in the first place.”  
  
Arthur looks away from him.  
  
“Arthur,” he says, “why the fuck did you take that job? You don’t do jobs like that. Cobb did, but you don’t. You’re cleverer than him.”  
  
“He had a reason,” Arthur says, but he’s not looking at Eames, which is good, because now Eames can stare at him as much as he likes.  
  
“You don’t. You don’t have a goddamn reason to take jobs like that.”  
  
“It wasn’t that bad,” Arthur says and glances at him briefly, “I mean, it wasn’t supposed to be. The job was so simple. I knew the client had… I had some concerns. But I always do. And I thought, maybe this once, it’s not that shady, nothing’s going to go wrong, and besides, I haven’t been…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I haven’t been working that much lately,” Arthur says, pointedly not looking at him now. “I haven’t been doing any, you know, any high-profile jobs. Just the dull ones.”  
  
“The ones that don’t usually kill you,” Eames says, taking the nearest chair and dragging it so that it’s just a few feet away from Arthur. He sits down.  
  
“I even did a divorce job,” Arthur says, swallowing, and Eames doesn’t stare at his neck, he _doesn’t_ , “found out the real reason why the wife had left. It was… really depressing.”  
  
“I can imagine,” Eames says. He’s done that kind of job, too. Back in the days when he really needed the money and also really wanted to stay alive. “And not exciting.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, “and then I got offered this job, and I thought I wouldn’t do it because… well, you know. I had heard stories about the client.”  
  
“But you were bored.”  
  
“I can’t stop doing this, Eames,” Arthur says, glancing at him. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“And besides,” Arthur says and swallows again, and there’s this one bad-looking bruise in his neck, as if they held him by his throat, and _fuck_ how awful the thought of it, and Eames really wants to touch that bruise. “Besides, everyone I know has quit or died.”  
  
“Oh, really?” Eames says, watching the bruise.  
  
“Except you.”  
  
Oh.  
  
“Arthur,” he begins. He should say something light and snappy, perhaps tease Arthur a little. _Did you miss me so much, darling? You should’ve just called me. There was no reason to getting yourself beaten up just to see me. I would’ve come to see you even if it wasn’t for a high-paying job. We could’ve chosen a nice place, somewhere warm, and booked a hotel room for a few nights and_ -  
  
What the hell is he thinking about?  
  
“Anyway,” Arthur says, straightening his back even though that’s clearly painful. The goddamn idiot. “Thank you for coming for me. I mean, I think they were pretty much done with me anyway. I don’t think they wouldn’t have killed me even if you hadn’t rushed in and pulled a gun on them.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Eames says. The hell with it. “But, you know, you could’ve just called. If you missed me that bad.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it and swallows. Perhaps Eames was trying to make it sound like he was teasing Arthur, just a little at least, but he definitely failed at that.  
  
“Because the thing is,” Eames says slowly, “that everyone I know has quit or died, too. And I’m never going to tell you this, but I kind of professionally like you.”  
  
“Ah,” Arthur says and nods with the most serious face Eames can imagine. “Yeah. It’s the same with me.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says.  
  
“Great,” Arthur says.  
  
“Great,” Eames says and then remembers he already said it. “Fine. Splendid. So, the food. Eating. You’ve got to eat. I’ve got to eat. We should eat something.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, frowning. “I might throw up again.”  
  
“Then maybe try to do that in the bathroom this time,” Eames says and then shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t mind.”  
  
Arthur nods. “I’ll try.”  
  
“And then,” Eames says, his voice coming out oddly dry, “then we should try to sleep. But the thing is, I need to wake you up every two hours.”  
  
“You already said that.”  
  
“Yeah. I meant that I can’t possibly put you to the guest room, because then I’d have to go there every time I needed to check that you’re breathing.”  
  
“I’m breathing, Eames.”  
  
“Yeah, but when you’re sleeping… you can’t know if you’re breathing or not if you’re asleep.”  
  
Arthur stares at him but doesn’t argue. There’s something in his eyes that Eames can’t make sense of, perhaps because for some reason he can’t look Arthur in the eyes for very long, not right now.  
  
“I have a big bed,” he says, “big enough for, I don’t know, three people if they’re comfortable with each other. Not that I’ve tried. I’m not comfortable with anyone. So, you’re going to sleep there. With me. On separate sides. So that I can listen to you breathing because I need to know that you aren’t dead.”  
  
Arthur looks at him for a long time and then nods. “Fine.”

 

**

 

“Eames,” Arthur says from the bathroom, “stop looking at me.”  
  
“I’m not looking at you,” Eames says. It seems that Arthur may have gained a few pounds.  
  
“ _Eames._ ”  
  
“I’m not -,” Eames starts and then realises Arthur’s watching him through the bathroom mirror. “You’ve gained weight.”  
  
For a second, Arthur looks surprised. Then he draws his gaze away from Eames and starts inspecting his hair, probably to find out if he got all the blood off. “Fuck off.”  
  
“In a good way,” Eames says. Arthur takes a step aside, so that Eames can’t see him anymore through the open door. Shit. He’s got to move a little. He shifts on the bed but tries to do it subtly. “I meant in a good way. You look good. Just like you did before, only with a few more pounds on you.”  
  
“I only left the door open because you demanded it,” Arthur says, but he sounds more confused than irritated, “and I quote you _, it’d be a bloody danger for you to be alone in a locked room with your concussion and all, Arthur._ ”  
  
“I don’t talk like that,” Eames says, because Arthur’s accent is just bloody terrible.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Arthur says, and there’s a grin in his voice, but he’s moved again so that Eames can’t see him. The fucking bastard’s smiling at him and he can’t even see it. Goddamn. “Do you really think so?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, “your fake British accent is just rubbish, you should learn how to speak properly.”  
  
“I meant,” Arthur says after a few seconds of silence, “about my weight.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says and shifts on the bed again, but it’s almost like Arthur’s hiding from him, standing in the corner he can’t see if he doesn’t stand up and takes a few steps, and that’d be just obvious, wouldn’t it, “yeah, I think maybe four or five pounds.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything. Goddamn. Eames stands up and walks to the bathroom door. Apparently, Arthur’s examining the bruises on his ribs. His belly really seems a bit softer than before. Not that Eames has been checking on him, but sometimes it just happens that they need to change clothes at a job or something, so it’s not like he hasn’t seen Arthur wearing just pants before, and it’s not like he’s been too modest to take a quick look at Arthur, because let’s face it, Arthur looks _good_ , doesn’t he? It’s a wonder that he’s got all those muscles packed under his skin, when he’s so thin.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. Eames frowns and then realises he’s staring at Arthur’s bare belly, and then he realises something else, too. “I suppose you weren’t asking how many pounds I think you’ve gained.”  
  
Arthur grimaces. He looks kind of uncomfortable. It must be because of the light in the bathroom, or maybe because of the broken ribs. “Not really. Just forget about it. It was stupid of me to –“  
  
“I meant it,” Eames says. “You look good. And just so you know, you’re still tiny.”  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur says, but he looks relieved, doesn’t he? The bastard actually cares about what Eames thinks about him. Who would’ve guessed? “Not that I care,” Arthur says and then frowns fiercely when Eames smiles at him, “I just felt like I’ve…”  
  
“Gone soft.”  
  
“Got old,” Arthur says and blinks. “ _Soft?_ ”  
  
“You aren’t soft, not at all,” Eames says quickly. “Absolutely not. You’re the hardest man I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Arthur’s laugh sounds kind of surprised.  
  
“Anyway,” Eames says, “shouldn’t you lie down? You’re injured, as you may remember. You have the ribs and a concussion.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, glancing at his own hands that are clenched to hold onto the edge of the sink in what seems like a quite tight grip, “yes, of course. I just have to take a piss.”  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, in a very nice voice, which is terrifying in a very comfortable way, “would you please fuck off for a minute?”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “ah, of course.”  
  
“And maybe close the door,” Arthur says.  
  
“Just don’t lock it,” Eames says.  
  
“I’m not going to faint.”  
  
“You should probably sit down for it. It’d be safer.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Eames,” Arthur says, closes the door himself and locks it, the bastard. “I know how to do this.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says, standing on the other side of the door, just in case something happens. “You could hold onto the sink.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says in a voice that’s pretty sharp.  
  
Eames takes a deep breath and stays quiet. There’s an odd sound coming from the bathroom, almost like Arthur’s laughing.  
  
A few minutes later, Arthur’s definitely stopped laughing. They’re lying on Eames’ bed, Eames on his side, Arthur on his back probably because it hurts a little less that way. Arthur’s breathing sounds oddly steady, as if he’s really trying there. Eames definitely is. It’s been a bloody lifetime since he’s been with someone like this, lying in bed, preparing to go to sleep, and perhaps two lifetimes since it’s happened so that there hasn’t been sex involved at all. But then again, this is only Arthur. He’s known Arthur for a long time. He’d probably do almost anything for Arthur. He doesn’t have anyone else for whom to do things, after all. There’s only Arthur.  
  
“You don’t sound like you’re going to fall asleep,” Arthur says in a quiet voice.  
  
“Your breathing sounds like you’re goddamn freaking out about sleeping next to me and trying not to show it.”  
  
Arthur’s quiet for a second. “So does yours, I suppose.”  
  
“My alarm goes off in two hours,” Eames says, just to say something so that Arthur can’t hear his breathing freaking out, “and then I’m going to wake you up to see that you’re alive. And if you aren’t, I swear I will fucking kill you.”  
  
“That’s very nice of you,” Arthur says. “I don’t usually sleep with people.”  
  
“Me, neither,” Eames says and turns to his back. Arthur shifts abruptly. Maybe he was staring at the back of Eames’ neck. Oh, God, what a thought. “I mean, I can handle sex, you know. But sleeping next to someone…”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I meant that, too.”  
  
“Maybe it’s because of our business,” Eames says. It probably isn’t, though.  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says and then takes a deep breath, “no, it probably isn’t.”  
  
“It’s not that I don’t like sleeping with someone,” Eames says, “and I don’t mean sex, I mean… like this. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just…"  
  
“I know,” Arthur says.  
  
“I can’t fucking take a risk.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I can’t take a risk that they’d be _nice_ ,” Eames says, “and everything that comes after.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.”  
  
“Do you know,” Eames says, “all that nonsense, waking up next to each other and, I don’t know, maybe kissing a little, and not to fuck but just… just to kiss, and then, breakfast, and buying groceries, and going to places, and watching television, and meeting the family, and you know, growing attached to someone, and then you’re beginning to realise that if they leave you it’s going to fucking end you, and it’s awful, isn’t it, if someone kicks the shit out of you it’s awful but in a different way, it’s somehow easier to handle, because the damage is visible, and also you know what you’re supposed to do about it, you’re supposed to fucking get your gun and pull it on them or maybe kick them in the groin or bend their wrist behind their back or –“  
  
“Yeah, I get the picture,” Arthur says. He’s watching Eames now. God, this is weird.  
  
”I just meant, when someone stops liking you, there’s really nothing you can do about it, is there?” Eames says and then bites his lip. This is the fucking last thing he’d ever talk about with Arthur. But then again, Arthur is probably the only person alive with whom he could talk about anything like this.  
  
”And something always goes wrong,” Eames says, ”every fucking time. It’s a law of nature.”  
  
”It actually isn’t,” Arthur says, ”but I know what you mean.”  
  
”And just so that you know,” Eames says, ”I’d never talk about things like these with anyone. Never.”  
  
”Yeah,” Arthur says. His tiny brown eyes are so serious and not at all mocking.  
  
”Anyway,” Eames says, ”how’re you feeling? How are your ribs? Do you think you’re going to faint?”  
  
”It’s like that for me, too, Eames,” Arthur says, ”just like that. But I’d never talk about it with anyone. Never.”  
  
”Well,” Eames says. They’re surprisingly close to each other, he and Arthur, lying in the bed like this. If he shifted a little, his arm would brush against Arthur’s. ”Great.”  
  
”Yeah,” Arthur says with the tiniest smile. ”So, if you ever tell anyone that I told you that I can’t stand liking someone, really liking someone, because the thought of everything going to hell is just too goddamn frightening, I’ll break your both wrists.”  
  
Eames smiles back at him. God, Arthur knows how to speak to a man. ”I won’t tell anyone. Of course not.”  
  
”Good,” Arthur says. ”Now, are you really going to wake me up in two hours?”  
  
”Yes,” Eames says, ”definitely. I want you alive.”  
  
”I think I should try to sleep.”  
  
”Yeah,” Eames says, ”me, too.” He doesn’t say good night. Instead, he wakes up in two hours when his alarm goes off. Arthur’s already awake, looking at him with a frown, almost like he’s trying to count something in his head.  
  
”Great, you’re still alive,” Eames says and sets the alarm to go off again in two hours.

 

**

 

Goddamn. He’s in his flat in Edinburgh, he can tell it by the sounds of lazy traffic and the rain against the windows. Sounds exactly like Scotland. And kind of like home. And, he’s still half-asleep and can’t fucking remember what the hell he’s doing at home. He was supposed to be -  
  
Oh.  
  
He pries one eye open. Arthur’s lying next to him in the bed, clearly asleep. Eames would know if Arthur was faking it. Arthur’s mouth is half-open and there seems to be a little drool on his chin. Well, Arthur’s just a human after all, who would’ve thought that. What is actually surprising is that Arthur hasn’t woken up yet. Unconscious or not, it’s definitely weird that Arthur’s letting Eames stare at him like this, from just a few inches away. Their faces are so close to each other it’d be terribly easy for Eames kiss him.  
  
“Eames?”  
  
Eames closes his eyes. No. No. _No._ Eames isn’t thinking about kissing Arthur. The thought never crossed his mind, not when Arthur’s _right there_ , probably looking at Eames with a deep, deep frown on his forehead, because surely this is the moment Arthur will finally figure out the way to read Eames’ thoughts. It’d be just perfect. Fucking hell. Eames takes a deep breath and then stops squeezing his eyes shut.  
  
“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, eyes narrow and almost worried. “You look like you’re having a stroke or something.”  
  
“God, no,” Eames says, “yeah, I’m alright. I just, I don’t know.”  
  
“You woke up and realised I’m here.”  
  
“No. Yeah.” He blinks. He can smell Arthur’s morning breath, which means Arthur can smell his. Shit. He should’ve sneaked to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before Arthur woke up. “But it’s not that I’m disappointed.”  
  
“I get it,” Arthur says. “It’s strange that I’m here. You probably want to get back to your own life.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Eames says, trying not to breathe on Arthur’s face. “Your hair looks funny. It’s sticking in odd directions.”  
  
“I couldn’t get it washed yesterday. There’s still product in it.” Arthur frowns. “And probably blood.”  
  
“I can draw you a bath later,” Eames says. He kind of wants to push his fingers through Arthur’s hair, just to see if it feels as sticky as it seems. His mother always used to say that he puts his hands every goddamn place he shouldn’t. “I’ll help you with the hair if you want.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says in an odd voice. Eames blinks. Arthur has that look on him, the same look he has when they’re on a job and Arthur’s trying to figure out what the hell went wrong and how to fix it.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You aren’t going to draw me a _bath._ ”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, “but if you try to take a shower, the door stays open. I don’t want you collapsing on my bathroom floor. I had it cleaned just half a year ago.”  
  
Arthur chews his lower lip. Eames doesn’t stare. Also, he doesn’t think about kissing Arthur. Not at all.  
  
“Stay there,” he says and gets out of the bed. He has a hard-on but it’s got nothing to do with Arthur, alright? Arthur knows that. Arthur knows what cocks are like in the mornings. At least Arthur knows his own cock. And surely he’s had sex, so he knows other men’s cocks as well, because Arthur’s gay, possibly even gayer than Eames, he’s always been certain of that, even though he can’t quite remember how he figured that out in the first place. Maybe it was in the way Arthur reacted to his flirting. It’s professional flirting, though, and Arthur knows it. It’s not like Eames means it. It’s not like he really wants to just get back to the bed and kiss Arthur, very carefully, because Arthur’s in bad shape right now. It’s not like that at all. “I’m going to make you breakfast,” he says aloud and tries to find his trousers, or his shirt, or even socks, anything. Then he remembers he put them under the bed because he was afraid they might offend Arthur. He has a great eye for colour but Arthur, sadly, hasn’t.  
  
“Breakfast?” Arthur says.  
  
Eames kneels down onto the floor and manages to get a grip on his t-shirt, lying on the floor under the bed. That’ll do. He just needs to brush the dust away. “Yeah, breakfast. I think you know the concept. What do you want?”  
  
“Anything.”  
  
“Anything?” He puts on the t-shirt and glances at Arthur. “I thought you’d be picky.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says and clears his throat. The bruise on his neck is bigger and angrier than yesterday. Eames can’t see any stubble but there must be some. Arthur’s fucking thirty years old. “Eames, I –”  
  
“Don’t move,” Eames says, stands up from the floor and walks out of the room. “I’m going to be right back.”  
  
He doesn’t get the chance, though. He’s only half-way finished with putting edible things on a tray, when Arthur stops in the kitchen doorway. He’s put on a t-shirt but not trousers, which is fine, because Eames hasn’t those, either. They can both be in their pants, like they’re friends who’re comfortable around each other but don’t want to kiss or anything like that.  
  
“You look pale,” Eames says, ignoring Arthur’s bare feet on his carpet. That’s kind of intimate. He kind of likes it. “I told you to stay in bed.”  
  
“I’m not great with being told what to do.”  
  
“I know that, but your goddamn concussion –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, clearly trying to hide a grimace at every step he takes. He walks at the kitchen table and sits down. “Eames, you don’t have to make me –“  
  
“You have two broken ribs,” Eames says. “I could’ve helped you. You didn’t have to walk those stairs by yourself.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Eames, you aren’t my –“  
  
Eames pours coffee into two mugs, slices bread and puts the slices on the plate, and finds the least dusty bowl in the cupboard to put yogurt in it. When he finally glances at Arthur, Arthur’s watching him, his mouth squeezed tightly shut. “You were saying that I’m not your –“  
  
He can see Arthur swallowing. The bruise in Arthur’s neck looks really bad in the morning light coming through the curtains. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Arthur says surprisingly quietly, almost like he’s trying to be nice about it, “but you aren’t my boyfriend.”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says and passes Arthur the cup of coffee.  
  
“I don’t get why you’re so nice to me,” Arthur says, almost too quietly for Eames to hear. Well, isn’t that unnerving.  
  
“You’re good at your job. I appreciate that. Now, drink your goddamn coffee and –“  
  
“I slept in your bed.”  
  
Eames clears his throat. Well, then. He wasn’t going to say anything, was he? He wasn’t even going to think about it, not really, and if it happens that he thinks about kissing Arthur when they’re lying in the bed impossibly close to each other, surely that doesn’t count. Anyone would agree. Arthur is a good-looking, nice-smelling, goddamn brilliant man, and Eames hasn’t kissed anyone who matters for an awfully long time, and besides, he fucking likes Arthur.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, his voice coming out dry and a bit too cheerful. He tries to cut it down. “You slept in my bed.” Shit, now he sounds like he’s bitter about it. “Arthur.” Shit, shit, _shit._ “I like you.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t say anything. That’s understandable. Eames clears his throat and turns to face the man.  
  
“I like you,” he says, “personally.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says, somewhat grudgingly, “I like you, too. Personally.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. He’s not going to fucking smile about it like a goddamn school-boy. “Fine. Great. You like me. Personally. That’s’ good.”  
  
“You knew that already,” Arthur says.  
  
“Of course I knew that.”  
  
“But I slept in your _bed._ ”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Eames asks, putting all the food on the kitchen table in front of Arthur. Arthur can fucking fill his own plate if he’s going to be so stubborn. Except that there’s no milk on the table, and Arthur sometimes takes his coffee with milk. Eames goes to get the milk from the fridge and then puts it on the table right in front of Arthur’s unhappy face. “Did you want to sleep on the floor? Or are you just trying to get on my nerves? Because I swear, I’m not going to kick you out, no matter how much of a complaining little shit you’re trying to be. And if you try to leave when you can’t goddamn walk without looking like someone just broke your ribs, I swear I’ll call your mother.”  
  
“My mother’s dead,” Arthurs says slowly.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “Well, then. I’m going to call your… father.”  
  
“It’s just,” Arthur says, taking the cup of coffee but not drinking, “it’s a lot, Eames. This is a lot.”  
  
“Just eat your bloody breakfast.”  
  
Arthur takes a sip of his coffee. Eames stares at him. He takes another sip.  
  
“So?”  
  
“Good coffee,” Arthur says. He’s staring back at Eames. Perhaps they’re in a staring contest. It surely feels like that. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Eames says and takes a deep breath. “And… sorry, you know, about your mother.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Arthur says. “I can’t believe you made me breakfast.”  
  
“I can’t believe you slept in my bed,” Eames says, and then they just sit there for a few seconds, until Arthur takes a slice of bread and starts putting butter on it, looking quite determined.

 

**

 

“Doesn’t that hurt?”  
  
“What?” Arthur blinks and looks up from his laptop.  
  
“The bruise. On your neck.”  
  
Arthur frowns.  
  
“You were touching it.”  
  
“Oh.” Arthur brushes his fingers against the bruise. Eames doesn’t bother to look away. It’s odd that he never noticed that Arthur has small hands. All those times when Arthur connected him to the PASIV, put the needle through his skin, holding his arm in place, and he never thought about Arthur’s hands.  
  
“It looks like it’s sore,” Eames says. His mouth is dry. “It looks really bad.”  
  
“You’re staring at me,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t sound angry about it. Not surprised, either.  
  
Eames shakes his head. “They didn’t try to kill you, though, did they? It’s not like someone tried to…”  
  
“To strangle me,” Arthur says. “No.”  
  
Eames swallows. “Because I can’t really bear the thought of –“  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, his voice coming out somewhat sharper now. “Eames, stop it. I didn’t die. I’m right here.”  
  
“I know that. I just –“  
  
“What is it, then?” Arthur blinks and frowns, blinks and frowns, the goddamn adorable thing, sitting on Eames’ sofa, wearing Eames’ sweatpants and a jumper, because it’s fucking cold in this house, isn’t it, they’re in bloody _Scotland._ “Do you… don’t tell me you have thing for… that.”  
  
“What? Absolutely not.”  
  
“For thinking about someone trying to strangle me,” Arthur says. He sounds a bit out of breath, but still not angry. He should be, though.  
  
“Sorry,” Eames says, “sorry, it’s not that. I just… can I touch it?”  
  
Arthur closes his laptop. “Can you what?”  
  
Eames puts his shoulders back. Well, he asked, didn’t he? It’s out there now. A goddamn stupid thing to ask, of course. But this is _Arthur._ “I said,” Eames says, taking a deep breath, “can I touch it. I don’t mean it like… I’m not going to get off on it or anything. I just… I hate thinking about someone doing that to you, and…”  
  
“Sure,” Arthur says and tugs at his goddamn collar.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “What?”  
  
“Sure, you can touch it,” Arthur says, raising his chin, as if he’s really saying that Eames could… “I always knew you were strange. Nice to know it’s something simple like this.”  
  
It doesn’t feel simple at all. Eames gets up from the chair and walks across the living room, stops at the couch and then, because it feels somehow wrong to sit down next to Arthur, he kneels on the floor. Arthur flinches but doesn’t push him away, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move when Eames raises his right hand and places it on Arthur’s neck, carefully, the tips of his fingers brushing against the edges of the bruise. Arthur lets out a shaky laugh.  
  
“I should’ve shot the bastard in the leg or something,” Eames says, slowly covering the bruise with his palm. He can feel Arthur breathing, a bit unsteadily, against his hand.  
  
“Don’t be an idiot,” Arthur says. “It’s just a bruise.”  
  
“I don’t like it,” Eames says, only he doesn’t mind too much now that the bruise is hidden under his hands, as if it’s that easy, as if fixing Arthur is that easy. As if Eames could do it.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, sounding out of breath again, “you’re kind of touching me.”  
  
Eames stops brushing the line of Arthur’s jaw with his fingertips and pulls his both hands away, and stumbles onto his feet. “Sorry.”  
  
“I don’t _mind_ ,” Arthur says, watching him, “It’s just that maybe you’ll regret it later.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, “of course. Thank you. Don’t you really have more stubble? After two days?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says. “Want to feel it?”  
  
“I just did,” Eames says and then bites his lip.  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly, “I know.” He looks alert and concerned. He looks like he’s going to go over it in his head for a while and then tell Eames to fuck off, only this is Eames’ house, so probably Arthur would just fuck off himself, and Eames would have to try to stop him, because of the concussion and all that, and wouldn’t that be fucking inconvenient. Shit. He shouldn’t have asked about the bruise. Of course he shouldn’t have and he _knew_ it and did it anyway, goddamn. His mother always said he knows exactly what he’s not supposed to do and does it anyway. He just fucking hopes that Arthur doesn’t pull a gun on him when he tries to stop Arthur from leaving, because he can’t deal with that now, that’s a bit too much.  
  
“So,” Arthur says in a familiar voice, and it takes Eames a few seconds to realise that’s Arthur’s _sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next_ -voice from when they’re working. “So, I got offered a job in Stockholm in a week. Nothing complicated.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. Stockholm. In a week. “I don’t know if your ribs have time to heal.”  
  
“I can’t stop working,” Arthur says. “What would I do, stay here?”  
  
"I’ve been meaning to buy some furniture for the backyard. You know, to sit there and drink when it’s not raining and there’s no wind and no snow and it’s not terribly wet. Maybe you could help me pick.”  
  
“Furniture,” Arthur says. “I didn’t think you were the kind of a person who sits in the backyard.”  
  
“I’d like to show you off to the neighbours,” Eames says and then bites his lip a bit too hard, “darling.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a moment, then raises his eyebrows just slightly and goes back to typing something on his laptop. Eames’ heart beats uncomfortably fast for a while and then slows down.

 

**

 

In the late afternoon, Arthur falls asleep on the sofa. One minute, he’s typing something, looking all serious and concentrating. The next time Eames takes a glance at him, he’s asleep.  
  
It's not that he doesn’t like Arthur, because he does. He really does, and no wonder it feels more personal now that Arthur’s wearing his clothes, sleeping on his sofa. And Arthur looks great. Eames can admit that because he has, well, he has eyes, hasn’t he? He would’ve tried to hit on Arthur if they had met somewhere else than at a job. Fine, he tried to hit on Arthur anyway. But just for fun. Just because it always seems to get under Arthur’s skin somehow, as if Arthur’s fiercely trying to figure out why the hell Eames would do it. Poor idiot. He’s doing it for _fun._ It’s too bad that Arthur doesn’t have that phrase in his vocabulary.  
  
Arthur snores and then falls silent again. His chest is rising and falling with his breathing. God, he looks adorable.  
  
Actually, Eames wouldn’t have flirted with him, if they had met in other circumstances. Of course not. He never flirts with people he might actually like enough to bring them home and sleep with them and sleep in the same bed with them and make them breakfast, unless there’s no chance the flirting will get him anywhere. Exactly like the case is with Arthur. Arthur is immune to flirting. And Arthur would never start anything with someone he’s working with.  
  
“Eames.”  
  
Eames flinches. Arthur’s watching him. He hasn’t moved, though. “Yeah?”  
  
“You’re watching me again.”   
  
“You were sleeping.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds and then closes his eyes again.

   
  
**

 

“Arthur.”  
  
Arthur glances at Eames. He looks tired. Eames should say that it’s time for them to go sleep, it’s late. It’s just that he doesn’t think he could fall asleep anytime soon, not with Arthur sleeping in his bed, and besides, what if Arthur says that he’d rather sleep in the guest room now? What’s Eames going to do then, say that it’s okay and let Arthur sleep alone? Well, obviously he’d do just that. But he’d be annoyed. And possibly lonely. Fuck.  
  
“You seem a bit tense,” Arthur says slowly.  
  
“Well, I’ve been sitting in this bloody chair for the whole day, watching television.”  
  
“You’ve been watching me watching television,” Arthur says with a hint of a smile, but then his face gets all serious again. “You should’ve gone out to… whatever it is that you’d rather do. I don’t need you to babysit me. Obviously, I shouldn’t have come here in the first place, but I was a bit unable to argue about that when you dragged me to the plane.”  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says. “You’re my favourite person to babysit, you git. But I can’t watch any more television. We should talk.”  
  
“What?” Arthur says, blinking. “About what?”  
  
“I don’t know. Anything. Life. That kind of thing.”  
  
“Life?” Arthur says with a frown, as if it’s a bit daring to suggest either of them has one.  
  
Eames smiles but it feels stretched on his face. His hands are sweating a little even though it’s cold in here like bloody always. “Yeah. I’ve known you for ages and I don’t know anything about you.”  
  
Arthur laughs, but there’s a nervous edge in it. “You know plenty of things about me. Even you aren’t so sloppy you’d neglect gathering some information about people you work with.”  
  
“I meant,” Eames says, “real things.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Real things?”  
  
“Yeah. Like, where’s your home?”  
  
“Where’s yours?” Arthur says, quickly, with a snappy tone Eames knows very well.  
  
“Here.”  
  
“Here?”  
  
“I bought that sofa,” Eames says and clears his throat, “five or six years ago, I think. Before the Fischer job anyway. I accidentally burned the old one.”  
  
“You… what?”  
  
“I was smoking and I dropped the cigarette and I know, I know it’s a bad habit to smoke in the house when you’re fucking falling asleep on your sofa late at night, but that’s what happened. The house didn’t burn down, though.”  
  
“You’re fucking with me,” Arthur says slowly, his eyes sharp and intent on Eames. “You aren’t that kind of an idiot.”  
  
“You mean,” Eames says, “I wouldn’t tell you that if it had really happened.”  
  
He can see Arthur swallow. “Well, yeah. You wouldn’t.”  
  
“But it did,” he says. “I quit smoking some time after. Except for the exceptions, of course. And I went to at least three stores before I picked that one. The sofa, I mean. It was the prettiest.”  
  
“The colour is terrible,” Arthur says. The couch is dark orange, what a lovely colour.  
  
“You look really nice on it,” Eames says, “especially asleep.”  
  
“Eames -,” Arthur starts, but whatever he was going to say, he drops it.  
  
“Anyway, I was quite young then,” Eames says, nodding at the couch, “and terribly handsome, of course. I used to take every job I could get, especially the ones that seemed a bit risky but not too much to remove my head from my shoulders, so to speak. And I used to do a job after a job because I could, back then. And when I didn’t have time to sleep or couldn’t, I just went to, I don’t know, to a gym or a run and it kept me awake, but this place… this was kind of my home.”  
  
“You were an idiot,” Arthur says in a small voice. “Sleeping is important.”  
  
“We’d know that, would we?”  
  
Arthur just stares at him.  
  
“But I don’t bring anyone here,” Eames says, making his voice relaxed and a bit distant. Arthur can certainly see straight through him, but maybe he’ll appreciate the effort and play along. “Well, maybe a few times for a night. But then I took them straight to the bedroom and kept them there. Not against their will,” he adds, when Arthur’s eyebrows shift, “fucking hell, that’s not my thing at all. I know I’m stronger than most people I sleep with. And I know I’m averagely good in bed. I don’t need to prove anything by being an asshole.”  
  
“I didn’t think you would…” Arthur stops. He’s squeezing the fabric of his trousers, which Eames bought from Primark some time ago. “Averagely good in bed?”  
  
“I don’t want to brag.”  
  
“You _don’t?_ ” Arthur says, now with a smile.  
  
“And also, I don’t want to set the expectations too high,” Eames says. His voice cracks just a little. Maybe Arthur didn’t notice.  
  
“Expectations?” Arthur asks in the politest tone imaginable.  
  
“Yeah. So, you were planning to tell me about your life.”  
  
Arthur chews on his lower lip. He has a nice mouth, stiff and always concerned, like the rest of him. Eames grins and doesn’t bother to try to hide it.  
  
“Your life,” he says, when Arthur’s still eyeing him with obvious suspicion, “like, where do you live? Really? Where’s your most beloved sofa? Where do you keep your most worn-out t-shirts? You must keep them somewhere. You wouldn’t throw them out, not before they have holes in them, would you? But you’d never let anyone see you wearing them.”  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“Except me,” Eames says, “I’m thinking, maybe you’d let me see you.”  
  
The silence rings in his ears, then Arthur nods. “Maybe. Some of them are pretty ugly, though.”  
  
“So, where are they?"  
  
“In Chicago.”  
  
“Chicago,” Eames says, “ _Chicago,_ a nice place, I suppose. I’ve never had anyone show me around there. I bet you know all the restaurants that are good and not the least posh.”  
  
“I don’t really eat in restaurants that often,” Arthur says, blinking. “I prefer take-out.”  
  
“Because you don’t cook.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I can’t, really.”  
  
“That’s disappointing,” Eames says, smiling, and for a second he thinks Arthur’s gaze falls onto his lips. “Very disappointing, indeed. Luckily, I’m a very good cook. I make exceptionally adequate British food.”  
  
“Thank God,” Arthur says slowly, as if he’s trying it out.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, and what the fuck, he’s already in too deep in this, “I could cook for both of us, darling. Or we could go out. Unless you really loathe eating in restaurants.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, sounding uncertain and kind of hopeful, or maybe it’s just Eames’ wishful thinking, “no, it's just that it always seems like a thing you aren’t supposed to do alone.”  
  
“You don’t want to be lonely in a restaurant.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “I don’t.”  
  
“It’s a good thing then that I’m coming with you,” Eames says, “when I am in Chicago, visiting you. Although there are restaurants in Edinburgh as well, can you believe it?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“Anyway,” Eames says quickly, before he runs out of whatever this is, surely not courage, maybe recklessness and loneliness and the stupid energy of a man who’s been sitting in a chair for the whole day, “ _anyway_ , I don’t suppose you have anyone waiting for you there, at home in Chicago, have you, Arthur?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says.  
  
“But if you had, it’d be a man, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“Fucking hell,” Arthur says, sounding surprised. “Eames, you know I’m gay.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Eames says, “I’ve known men who seemed gay and then went and married women.”  
  
“Maybe they’re bisexual, you idiot,” Arthur says. “But I’m gay. And I’m not married.”  
  
“Well, good.”  
  
“ _Good?_ ”  
  
“Because I just pretended to be your husband,” Eames says, “yesterday, at the hospital, if you can remember.”  
  
“I remember,” Arthur says, crossing his hands in his lap. He’s stopped fiddling with Eames’ trousers, then. “You played the part very well.”  
  
“Did I?” Eames says and can’t help smiling. “Did I, really?”  
  
“Yeah. It was very convincing.”  
  
“Great,” he says. “I’m glad you liked it.”  
  
“Yesterday wasn’t my favourite day, all in all,” Arthur says, “not with all that getting kicked in the ribs and stuff. But it wasn’t the worst part of the day, you know, when you kissed me at the hospital.”  
  
Eames bites his lip.  
  
“I just always thought you’d be a bit bolder about it.”  
  
Eames swallows. “You like them bold?”  
  
“I like many things,” Arthur says, “it depends. But you try to make people think you’re reckless and cheeky. I thought you’d kiss that way. Especially when there’s an audience.”  
  
“I really couldn’t -,” Eames says and clears his throat. “It was a bit hard to concentrate on my… cheekiness.”  
  
“Because you liked kissing me,” Arthur says.  
  
Fucking hell. He thought he was playing Arthur here, mostly.  
  
“So,” Arthur says, “you aren’t like that, then? You aren’t like that when you’re with someone? Bold and cheeky, I mean.”  
  
“I don’t -,” Eames starts, then frowns and tries again. “I’m not really… I don’t _know._ I might be. If we’re talking about a one-night-stand. That’s my… I’m comfortable when I’m being like that. With people who don’t know me, I mean. And people I have sex with definitely don’t know me.”  
  
“Men,” Arthur says, quite sharply, “men you have sex with. You’re gay.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”  
  
“But you only have one-night-stands.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You don’t make them breakfast.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “no, I don’t. Ever.”  
  
“Just for me, then,” Arthur says, licking his lower lip, and Eames isn’t certain if Arthur knows he’s doing it or not, because he can’t fucking _think_ anymore. “And you don’t really know what you’d be like in bed. If you were with someone you know, I mean.”  
  
“I suppose. I suppose I don’t know. I haven’t been… _fucking hell,_ Arthur.”  
  
“You started this,” Arthur says, which is fair enough.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “but you’re brilliant at it. Who would’ve thought.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“And it’s true. You’re right. It’s been fucking ten years since I’ve been with anyone who mattered. I don’t know what I’d be like. It’d be fucking terrifying. But I think I’d be nice about it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, “I think so too.”  
  
“And you,” Eames says, the words coming out of his mouth a bit too fast, “you haven’t been in a relationship in a long time either, have you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“But it’s not like you’re against the general idea, the idea of sleeping with someone you know.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, impossibly slowly, as if he has all the time in the fucking world, when Eames’ heart, in the other hand, is beating fast as hell, “what’re you saying?”  
  
“Earlier, when I asked if I could touch your bruise –“  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I don’t think it was only about the bruise.”  
  
“I kind of figured,” Arthur says. “I figured, it must be about me. Me being bruised and all.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Arthur,” Eames starts but can’t make himself say anything else.   
  
“Because ever since you came back for me yesterday morning, when you really should’ve just fucked off already, ever since you dragged me to Scotland with you and to the hospital and to your bed and that, it’s been a bit like you think you’re trying to keep me safe or something.”  
  
Eames clears his throat. Arthur doesn’t sound angry, though.  
  
“It’s nice,” Arthur says, suddenly very quietly, “it’s nice, I don’t mind it, it’s just… you know no one else would’ve come back for me. No one in this fucking business. And I wouldn’t have let anyone else do what you did. I’d have rather passed out on the street alone than let anyone else wipe the blood off my face and take me out of the country and to the hospital and pretend to be my husband.”  
  
“Well,” Eames says, only his voice sounds quite thin, “that’s stupid.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says, “it’s just that I’ve been alone for a long time, I can’t deal with it when people try to take care of me. It makes me feel weak.”  
  
“You aren’t weak.”  
  
“I know you know that,” Arthur says, watching him. “That’s why I’m here.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “so, _so,_ would you like something to eat? It’s late. I think we should –“  
  
“Eames.”  
  
Goddamn.  
  
“This is kind of, you know,” Arthur says with a quiet voice, “terrifying.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yeah, I know.” He sounds breathless and nervous like a bloody teenager at his first date.  
  
“So, I was just wondering,” Arthur says, “since you don’t need to wake me up every two hours tonight. If you let me sleep in your bed anyway, I suppose it means something.”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. He’s fucking terrified, alright, but he’s always thought he’s a man who can keep his head calm in fucking tight spots and do what must be done. “I hope you sleep in my bed.”  
  
“Alright,” Arthur says.

 

**

 

This time, Eames lets Arthur lock the bathroom door and waits in the bedroom, listening to the sounds of Arthur taking a quick shower and then brushing his teeth. He's almost certain that Arthur was flirting with him, asking all those questions about how he kisses people and what he’s like in bed. Or maybe Arthur, the sneaky bastard, was just gathering information. No, that’s not possible. Arthur wouldn’t do that to him, lure him into thinking that they’re flirting when Arthur would be only interested in filling in the blank gaps in his files about Eames. Fuck, that’d be exactly what Arthur would do. Oh, God. Maybe Arthur isn’t interested in him at all, and isn’t that convenient, because he's not bloody sure if he’s interested in Arthur, either. He must be, though, because he’s walking tiny circles in his bedroom, unable to sit down and wait for Arthur to come out of the bathroom, because what the hell is going to happen then, what the hell indeed, are they going to just go to the bed and sleep? Just like that? When they just talked about kissing and sex and stuff? Or is Arthur going to expect Eames to kiss him? Or is Arthur going to kiss Eames? On his mouth? And would he like it? Goddamn, of course he’d like it. But would there be just one kiss or more? And how many? Would Arthur fucking ask Eames to sleep with him and then ditch him the next morning? Could Arthur do that to him? Probably. Arthur’s a bloody badass, always has been. But could Eames go with it? If Arthur wanted to kiss him just for fun and forget about it tomorrow, could Eames go with it?  
  
“What the hell?” Arthur asks. Surprisingly, he’s standing at the bathroom door. He has the towel wrapped around his waist and there’re more bruises on his sides and chest than Eames remembers from yesterday. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“Nothing,” Eames says. At least he’s stopped walking circles. He probably looks like he’s standing in the middle of his bedroom, just staring at the bathroom door, waiting for Arthur to come out, which coincidentally is exactly what he’s doing.  
  
“Are you okay?” Arthur asks slowly.  
  
“Yeah, sure. Of course. I’m fine. I’m just fine.”  
  
“You can go in now if you want,” Arthur says and nods at the bathroom.  
  
Eames locks himself in the bathroom, almost gets stuck trying to take off his t-shirt, and then takes a cold shower. It doesn’t clear his head at all. When he’s brushed his teeth and is standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself sternly in the eyes, Arthur’s still there, behind the closed door, probably lying in Eames’ bed already, and Eames has fucking _feelings.  
  
_ This wasn’t supposed to happen. If he had known this, when he dragged Arthur to the plane and home with him -  
  
Well, what else did he think? Really? He’s been flirting with Arthur since they first met. Arthur’s the one person in their business that he really trusts. Arthur’s brilliant and funny and incredibly clever and annoying in ways that should be impossible, but they aren’t, not for Arthur. And Eames brought him _home._ What the fuck did he expect would happen? That he’d just flirt with Arthur until Arthur got better and then pat him on the shoulder and send him off?  
  
There’s a knock on the door.  
  
“Just a bloody minute, please,” Eames says.  
  
“I can hear that you aren’t doing anything in there,” Arthur says from behind the locked door. “What’re you doing, trying to think this over?”  
  
Damn, Arthur’s good. “Of course not.”  
  
“Eames.”  
  
“Think what over, exactly?” Eames asks and frowns at his own reflection in the mirror.  
  
“Well, me sleeping in your bed, I’d guess. Or the breakfast you’re going to make me tomorrow.”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. He should say something cool and normal.  
  
“Just take a piss and wash your hands and come here,” Arthur says, sounding slightly irritated now. “I’ll be in bed.”  
  
Eames does what he’s been told. When he opens the door, Arthur really is in his bed, lying there like he doesn’t know how comfortable he looks. Eames wraps his towel more tightly around his waist. “So that you know, I’m naked. And I’m going to walk over there and find pants and put them on. Don’t stare at my ass.”  
  
He walks to the closet, finds pants, puts the towel aside and puts the pants on. When he glances over his shoulder, Arthur’s staring at his ass and smiling the kind of a half-smile he normally uses when Eames flirts with him exceptionally well and he’s trying not to show how happy he is about that.  
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“You could’ve, I don’t know, not dropped the towel,” Arthur says.  
  
“You’re not a gentleman.”  
  
Arthur laughs.  
  
“Not a gentleman at all,” Eames says, turns the lights off and goes to bed. Under the duvet, his leg brushes against Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t shift. “Are you any better?”  
  
“Laughing hurts like hell,” Arthur says, watching him in the dark. “Moving hurts like hell, breathing hurts less. My head feels fine, though.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says, turning to his side so that he can face Arthur. It’s obviously a mistake. Arthur’s too close to him, close enough to, well, kiss. Or something like that. Whatever it is that Arthur likes to do in bed. “I’m glad.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I don’t remember the last time I had so many bruises.”  
  
“Do they hurt?”  
  
Arthur watches him for a few seconds that feel much longer. “Want to try?”  
  
Eames clears his throat. “You don’t have to.”  
  
“Of course not,” Arthur says, pushing the duvet to his waist. “But I bet you want to.”  
  
“I don’t really want to _hurt_ you,” Eames says, taking a quick glance at Arthur’s chest. Even in the dark room, he can tell where the bruises are.  
  
“Come on,” Arthur says in a voice that’s a bit hoarse, fucking hell, Arthur’s talking hoarsely because Eames is about to touch him on his chest and on his sides and probably on his back, too, as if they’re bloody lovers. “Come on, Eames. I know. You just want to know that I’m here and that I’m hurt and you’re making it better.”  
  
“God, that sounds awful when you say it like that.”  
  
“I don’t mind if you hurt me a little,” Arthur says in a voice that’s barely audible. “I don’t know what to do when people are being nice to me. It might help if you –“  
  
Eames places his thumb on a particularly large bruise on Arthur’s chest and presses on, just a little. He can hear the breath getting caught in Arthur’s throat, and the tiny sound Arthur makes is just… “I like you, Arthur.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, closing his eyes, “yeah, I know.”  
  
“I like you a lot.” He runs his fingertips on the bruise, circling it for a moment, then pressing so that Arthur flinches again. “Does this hurt?”  
  
“A little."   
  
“What about this?” he asks and finds another bruise. It’s on Arthur’s side, near to where his right arm is lying on the mattress.  
  
“A little. Eames, I think I’m going to kiss you later.”  
  
“Really?” he asks and follows a bruise that’s on Arthur’s stomach, near to his hips. “Are you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, breathing harder. “I know this wasn’t supposed to be like that. I know you’ve been flirting with me just for… just for…”  
  
“Fun.”  
  
“Yeah. And I know this is fucking awkward because I’m already in your bed. And I know you don’t sleep with people you know. And you know me. Eames, you _know_ me."   
  
“Yeah, sure,” Eames says. There’s the soft spot on Arthur’s stomach, right under Eames’ fingertips. “I know you.”  
  
“You aren’t going to send me off after we’ve slept together,” Arthur says. “And you’re going to make me breakfast tomorrow.”  
  
Eames blinks. “I don’t think… I don’t think you’ve recovered enough to have sex.”  
  
Arthur laughs.  
  
“I’m not going to be responsible for making you feel shittier than you already do,” Eames says, covering the bruise on Arthur’s stomach with his palm. “But you can kiss me.”  
  
“Yes, I can.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, raises his hand and places it on the back of Eames’ neck somewhat clumsily but that’s understandable, isn’t it, the goddamn idiot is injured. He’s not probably in a kissing shape either. But Eames isn’t going to stop him, is he? No. No, he isn’t. If Arthur wants to kiss him – “Just come here,” Arthur says and pulls so that Eames has to lean forward. Arthur’s breathing smells of toothpaste, Eames’ toothpaste. Arthur’s hair smells of Eames’ shampoo. Arthur’s mouth tastes of -  
  
Arthur’s mouth tastes of toothpaste, naturally.  
  
God, this is weird.  
  
Arthur’s kissing Eames like he means it, though. Arthur’s kissing Eames like it’s not for fun but rather for real, whatever that means. Maybe it means that they’re going to sleep in the same bed and wake up together tomorrow and eat breakfast and watch television and not run off even though it’s obvious they have _feelings.  
  
_ “I always thought you were hot,” Eames says against Arthur’s mouth, “in your goddamn suits, and I don’t have a thing for suits, they just look good on you, only on you, you’re so goddamn stubborn and serious all the time, they suit you, the suits, and the way you frown when you’re trying to concentrate, and you always take everything so seriously, and you’re so good at it, brilliant, you always fix things in the end, you fix even the impossible things, and you fucking _never_ improvise, that’s just mad, Arthur, I don’t get it, I don’t understand how you can be so fucking brilliant when you never improvise –“  
  
“Shut up,” Arthur says. Arthur’s tongue is kind of in Eames’ mouth now. Good Lord, they’re French-kissing. There’s no way to go back to colleagues after this, is there?  
  
“I understand that this is complicated,” Eames says, “you and me, and that we don’t do relationships, and we travel all the time, and both of us have stupid habits we aren’t going to want to change, and you think I wear terrible clothes, and you don’t like the colour of my sofa, but Arthur, _Arthur_ , just hear me out, I’m not doing this for _fun_ anymore _._ I really like you.”  
  
“I _know_ ,” Arthur says, his fingers in Eames’ hair. “If you could just shut up and let me kiss you –“  
  
“And I’m kind of terrified here,” Eames says, placing another sloppy kiss on Arthur’s mouth, he fucking adores this man, he does, always has, he adores his stubborn frown and his tiny concerned eyes and his unhappy mouth that’s, well, not so unhappy right now, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I don’t want to mess this up, I really don’t, it’s just –“  
  
He takes a deep breath and swallows down the rest. Arthur’s fingers brush against his cock through the fabric, going back and forth, and he can’t think, he can’t _think_ , that’s _Arthur_.  
  
“I know you love the sound of your own voice but I kind of thought you’d shut up when we’d kiss,” Arthur says, smiling, only Eames can’t see it because he’s closed his eyes. Goddamn that feels good. “I’m glad this shut you up at least.”   
  
“But you can’t -,” Eames says and bites his lip. “You aren’t going to –“  
  
Arthur pushes his hand under the waistband of Eames’ pants and takes his cock in his hand.  
  
“Arthur, darling. _Arthur –_ “  
  
“Hurts like hell,” Arthur says, stopping his hand after a few tucks. “I mean, my ribs… I’m sorry. Maybe if you shifted a little –“  
  
“Can I just -,” Eames says and leans onto his elbows, then climbs onto his knees and pulls Arthur’s duvet all the way down. Arthur’s hard in his pants already, he can see that in dim light, bloody hell, he’s not planning to… surely he’s not planning to… “I want these off.”  
  
“Yeah,” Arthur says, a bit short of breath, his fingers running on Eames’ chest now. There’s a slight chance that Eames will hear about his tattoos tomorrow, or when Arthur’s gotten off and is more talkative. Well, he’s done nothing wrong. He got them when he was young, okay? “Eames, you don’t have to ask.”  
  
“I don’t want to do anything you don’t –“  
  
“You won’t.  I’ll tell you if I don’t like what you do. I can still talk.”  
  
“I know,” Eames says and places his palms on Arthur’s hips, pressing him against the mattress, just to keep him in place so that he can… so that he can…  
  
“And I don’t mind if it hurts a little,” Arthur says in a rushed voice. “Just don’t ask me.”  
  
“Okay.” Eames’ presses his fingertips against the light skin on Arthur’s hips, against a bruise, and goddamn, the sound Arthur makes, the way he keeps licking his lips, the way he keeps glancing at Eames, as if Eames is the goddamn best thing in the world, as if Arthur really wants him and no one else to do this for him. “It’s alright, darling.” Then he pulls Arthur’s pants to his ankles, leaving them there. Arthur’s breathing hard. “Just lie there, nice and steady. I’m going to take care of you, darling.” _Darling_. It tastes different in his mouth, somehow, now that he has Arthur naked in his bed.  
  
“Fuck,” Arthur says, eyes closed, thighs trembling a little, “fuck, Eames, what’re you doing, just do –“  
  
Eames leans down, grabs Arthur’s hips again and takes his cock in his mouth.  
  
Arthur breathes out slowly.  
  
This is going to be bloody great. He’s going to take Arthur apart so slowly that Arthur will be half-crazy when he lets him finish. He’s going to make Arthur beg for it. He’s going to make Arthur grab his hair and his shoulders, trying to make him get him there already. He’s going to make Arthur say all the nice things to him, all the nicest things -  
  
Only he can’t really slow down now, can he, when Arthur’s writhing and sweating and panting and apparently trying not to push into his mouth and kind of failing. He just doesn’t have the heart to make this last any longer than it needs to, and besides, his jaw begins to ache quite soon. It’s totally worth it, though, because before Arthur comes, he starts saying Eames’ name in a desperate voice. Fuck that’s good.  
  
He's going to make Arthur come. Right now. And again tomorrow.  
  
He's going to make Arthur come and then just watch him, lying there in his bed, spent and naked and all sweaty, the most brilliant man that’s ever been in Eames’ bed. The most brilliant man Eames has ever met, probably, coming into Eames’ mouth in a few seconds, yeah, Arthur’s almost there, almost there, almost -  
  
Arthur tugs at his hair but he doesn’t back off.  
  
He never really liked the taste of it but then again, it’s not like he’s going to have to eat it. He spits on the floor and throws a tissue to cover the mess and then crawls to Arthur until they’re face to face. Arthur looks so tired and so happy for bloody once.  
  
“Don’t kiss me,” Arthur says, “you’re going to taste like –“  
  
He kisses Arthur. Arthur puts his hand on his shoulder and kisses him back.  
  
“Alright? I didn’t break any ribs?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Arthur says, his eyelids flickering. He shifts his neck, apparently trying to take a glance at Eames’ cock, which is quite hard in his pants. “I should… can you come closer so that I can…”  
  
“Darling,” he says, takes off his pants and wraps his fingers around his cock, “you look exhausted. Almost as if you just came into someone’s mouth. You’ll have plenty of time to rub me off later.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “I can’t just expect you to –“  
  
“Take care of myself,” Eames says, sits down on his heels and starts wanking. “Just lie there and look like… yeah, exactly like that. That’s good. That’s _great_ , Arthur.”  
  
“You fucking idiot,” Arthur says. He says it fondly. Oh, God, they’re going to be in trouble. Can they even fucking take a job together if they’re in a relationship? It didn’t work out too well for Mal and Cobb.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “just like that, yeah, lie there looking all tired and spent, like you’re going to fall asleep any minute now, and like you really want to have a few words about how reckless I am, and how I’m not supposed to blow you and then let you be there when I fucking do the job myself, right in front of you, right at your face, you poor bastard, if only you weren’t injured, then maybe you could fuck me or something, I don’t know, I bet you’d like it, I bet you’d want me on my knees, you know, and you’d think, _how the fuck did I get here, how the fuck did I end up fucking this gorgeous, handsome, strong, very masculine man from behind like he’s just dying to get fucked by me, just dying to, how the fuck did it happen, I’m always so concerned and serious and worried –_ “  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. He’s smiling a little. “You’re an idiot.”  
  
Eames comes.  
  
“I thought,” Arthur says slowly, reaching to touch Eames’ shoulder again, running his fingers on Eames’ collarbone and on his chest, “I thought you’d be pushy but quiet. I don’t know how I got it so wrong. I’m almost never wrong.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Eames says, pressing his eyes shut for a moment, because Arthur looks too good, just too good, and he’s got to breathe for a second, “oh, shit, shitty shit, that was… you were…”  
  
“I didn’t do anything. You weren’t even talking to me. You were talking to yourself.”  
  
“You were brilliant,” Eames says, eyes still closed, “just brilliant. A lovely, lovely thing. Brilliant.”  
  
“Just come here,” Arthur says, his fingers reaching for Eames’ knee, “clean yourself up a little and come here. I want to kiss you.”  
  
“This isn’t a one-night-stand.”  
  
“No, it’s not. Come here, Eames. We’ll figure it out.”  
  
“What if we -,” Eames takes a deep breath, “what if we fall in love? What if?”  
  
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about that. Eames, I want to snuggle.”  
  
Eames laughs. Arthur just keeps staring at him. “Oh. Sorry. You want to _snuggle._ ”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Bloody hell. If Arthur wants to snuggle, Eames will fucking snuggle with him. “Alright, darling.”  
  
“I have to lie on my back,” Arthur says, “it hurts too much otherwise.”  
  
“I can snuggle you like this,” Eames says. Arthur’s hand is kind of wandering into his direction, so he takes it and holds it. Arthur’s fingers feel lean and long and kind of fragile. Well, all fingers are fragile.  
  
“Maybe we’re going to freak out about this in the morning,” Arthur says.  
  
“I didn’t know you smelled this good,” Eames says, pushing his nose against Arthur’s neck. There’s the bruise, the ugly one. He kisses it, or maybe licks at it, but then again, what’s the difference?  
  
“I’ve been using your shower gel.”  
  
“Well, that must be it, then.” He can feel Arthur breathing. In and out. In and out. Steady as it goes. God, he's smitten with this man. “If I freak out about this in the morning, punch me in the face. Or in the dick.”  
  
Arthur laughs. “If I freak out, don’t punch me. I don’t think I can take it right now.”  
  
“I would never.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, “you’re kind,” and that’s it. That’s it. Eames stays awake for a while, listening to Arthur’s breathing slowing down, trying to figure out the moment when Arthur finally falls asleep, but in the end, he misses it.  
  
In the morning, he has his arm wrapped around Arthur’s waist and his half-hard cock pressed lightly against Arthur’s bare hips. Arthur’s watching him with a concentrated look. There’s the sound of traffic coming from the street and he’s fucking freezing because apparently Arthur’s stolen half of his duvet.  
  
“I’m not going to freak out,” Arthur says in a hoarse voice.  
  
“It’s okay,” Eames says and gets out of the bed. “Just take your time. I’ll make you breakfast.”

 

**

 

Arthur is quiet throughout the breakfast. Eames tries to start a conversation about how his purple t-shirt really suits Arthur and actually, Arthur should definitely wear purple more often. Arthur says _hmm_ and Eames gives up. Anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t like Arthur’s usual clothes.  
  
But when they’ve eaten and are drinking their second cups of coffee, the silence is beginning to get on Eames’ nerves. Perhaps Arthur actually is freaking out. Arthur would be just the kind of a person who’d do it quietly, his face not more worried than it always is, so that Eames wouldn’t have a fucking chance to intervene until it’d be too late. Actually, that’s pretty much what happened the last time someone left him. It’s been almost ten years, but he remembers it just fine. He kind of wanted to drink all the whiskey in the town and then kick himself in the head for loving the idiot, and also he was bloody _mortified_ that he felt so crappy about something so simple as someone not loving him anymore.  
  
“Hi,” he says now. Arthur looks at him over his cup of coffee. “Are you regretting it yet?”  
  
“You blowing me?” Arthur asks without a blink. “What’s there to regret?”  
  
Eames can’t help smiling a little. God, he’s in trouble. “No, I meant…”   
  
“I know what you meant.” Arthur takes another sip of his coffee. “I suppose you aren’t.”  
  
“Regretting blowing you? What’s there to regret?” Eames knows that Arthur’s smiling just to amuse him, but he appreciates it anyway. “No. I’m really not.”  
  
“I was that good, then.”   
  
“Yeah.” He stares at Arthur until Arthur finally looks away. Hopefully what Arthur’s thinking about now is his dick in Eames’ mouth. “Can I come to visit you in Chicago? At your home?”  
  
The way Arthur’s drinking his coffee, he’s going to need a refill soon. “Yeah.”  
  
“Great. Can I call you? If I want to talk to you?”  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
“Even if I don’t have anything important to say? Like, nothing job-related?”  
  
“Yes, you can call me,” Arthur says slowly.  
  
“And could you possibly -,” Eames starts and clears his throat, “- could you tell me that you’re going to tell me what’s happening in your life, in general? Like, if you take a job that’s going to require you hiding three weeks in Moscow, you’re going to tell me beforehand?”  
  
“I don’t like Moscow that much. Eames –“  
  
“And,” Eames says, “ _and_ , if you happen to meet someone whom you’d like to fuck, would you –“  
  
“Really?” Arthur cuts him off. “You want me to say that I won’t fuck other men? At this point?”  
  
“No,” Eames says, “I wasn’t saying that at all. I only asked that if you happen to meet someone –“  
  
“If I happen to meet someone, am I going to tell you about it so you can lose your shit over the thought of me fucking someone else? Why the hell would I do that? What for? So that you could feel miserable?”  
  
Eames swallows.  
  
“Because you would,” Arthur says in a voice so soft it should be illegal, “you’d be miserable if you knew I was fucking someone else, wouldn’t you? Eames, you’re such a –“  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’d never have guessed,” Arthur says, shaking his head. He doesn’t look pissed, though. “I’d have never thought you were the kind who wants a relationship."  
  
“Well, I don’t…” Shit. “I’m not saying that I… I don’t usually… It’s just…”  
  
“Me,” Arthur says. He sounds slightly out of breath.  
  
“And I’m not saying that I need you to be my _boyfriend_ –“  
  
Fucking hell. He and Arthur in a bar somewhere, they stop at the counter, he has his hand on the low of Arthur’s back, everyone knows that they’re together, and when they need to introduce themselves, he says _this is Arthur, my boyfriend_ , and Arthur glares at him but doesn’t shift away from his touch, and doesn’t disagree.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says now, the real Arthur, the one who’s sitting at Eames’ kitchen table, watching Eames a bit too closely. “Eames, you’re a fucking romantic.”  
  
“I’m really not.”  
  
“So, you don’t want it then,” Arthur says in a light voice, “you don’t want me to be your boyfriend.”  
  
Eames licks his lips. Goddamn.  
  
“I think,” Arthur says, and _surely_ Arthur’s gaze flicks onto Eames’ mouth and back to his eyes, “I think I’m not going to sleep with anyone else for a while. Not until we’ve figured out this thing, whatever it is, because clearly you don’t want me to be your boyfriend. But anyway, I’m pretty sure you’ll keep me busy. Regarding sex, I mean.”  
  
“Is that a _you’ll keep me busy or else_?”  
  
“No. If you mean it.” Arthur puts the cup of coffee aside and crosses his hands on the table as if they’re in the middle of a goddamn negotiation. “Tell me you don’t want to fuck other people.”  
  
“I don’t want to fuck other people,” Eames says. His face feels warm but maybe Arthur doesn’t notice.  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says. “I won’t, either. Not until we break this off. If we break this off.”  
  
Eames swallows.  
  
“I didn’t know you blush,” Arthur says, looking really happy with himself.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Listen,” Arthur says, “I was thinking, I haven’t seen too many movies lately. Maybe we could rent something and, you know, sit on your awful sofa.”  
  
“The both of us,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur nods. “Yeah.”  
  
“I’m not quite certain that you realise the dimensions of the sofa,” Eames says. “That’s not a big sofa, Arthur. If we’d be sitting on it, the both of us, we might have to, I don’t know, touch.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says, “apparently we like each other.”  
  
Oh. This is too good. Eames takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair.  
  
“I might even lean against your shoulder,” Arthur says, “I think. If you don’t mind.”  
  
“I really don’t.”  
  
“You can have your arm around my shoulders if you want. Just be nice about my many bruises.”  
  
Eames grins and bites his lip.

 

**

 

It turns out that he can’t. He starts by tracing the bruise on Arthur’s neck with his fingertips, then kissing it, then kind of undressing Arthur. It’s not like Arthur minds too much, though. After a few grunts, Arthur puts the movie on pause and takes off his pants and then lies back on the couch when Eames tries to climb onto Arthur without falling onto the floor or poking Arthur with his knee or falling onto _Arthur_ , because that would be the end of Arthur, surely, with the broken ribs and all. It doesn’t go too well, but finally Eames gets his knees on the cushions steadily enough that he can take Arthur’s cock in his hand and slowly, slowly bring Arthur off. In the end of it, Arthur begins saying his name, and isn’t that brilliant? Just brilliant. Just the way he wants Arthur. And God, he _is_ a romantic, isn’t he? A bloody idiot, that’s what he is, and a romantic, and he really, really wants to call Arthur his boyfriend, he wants to walk everywhere holding Arthur by his elbow and telling people that this, this absolutely uptight frowning man is his boyfriend. He wants Arthur to get jealous at him and tell him to stop flirting with other people, to which he’ll say that he didn’t mean it, he does it by accident, it’s not his fault that he’s so naturally charming, and then Arthur will drag him to the bathroom probably, and close the door, and push him against the wall but nicely so that his head doesn’t hit the wall, and Arthur will say that if Eames wants to keep this up, this thing in between them, he’s got to behave, and he’s going to say _yeah, of course, darling, anything_ , and Arthur’s going to push his pants to his knees and make him come so fast it’s almost uncomfortable -  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, “Eames, what the hell are you thinking about?”  
  
Eames shakes his head. “You.”  
  
“I’m right here.”  
  
“Sorry.” Shit. He has Arthur’s dick in his hand and Arthur’s flushed and sweating and pushing against his hand with every tuck. “I was just thinking about you.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound angry at all, just quite desperate. “Just fucking get me off, Eames. Please. Just –“  
  
“Yeah. Of course.”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
After Arthur has come, Eames kisses him on the mouth and pushes the hair back from his face and then gets a towel and cleans him up. Mr. Arthur, his boyfriend.  
  
It's too bad he doesn’t know Arthur’s surname.

 

**

 

That night, in the bed, he keeps kissing Arthur until Arthur pushes his hand inside his pants. He’s got to help Arthur a little but that’s just alright. He lies down so that the angle is the best possible for Arthur and then he wraps his own fingers over Arthur’s hand so that Arthur doesn’t need to do all the work. It’s almost as if he's holding Arthur’s hand. Very intimate. Almost frightening. Luckily, he’s a bit distracted because of Arthur’s fingers on his cock.  
  
Arthur won’t let him finish, though, the bloody bastard. He kisses Arthur on the mouth quite intently but Arthur just won’t keep going, tells him to climb onto his knees, which seems like a lot of work for nothing, and then tells him to come closer, and yet a little bit closer still, and he thinks about arguing but doesn’t have the time, because that’s when Arthur traces his ass with his fingers. With his forefinger, to be exact. His brilliant forefinger, which he pushes in, just slightly, just enough.  
  
“When I’ve recovered,” Arthur says in a serious tone, “I will fuck you. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says. God, Arthur’s finger. The finger with which Arthur writes notes. The finger with which Arthur points at things. Fucking hell, he can’t think.  
  
“In your bed,” Arthur says, “I’m going to fuck you in your bed, and then I’m going to sleep there too. And not sneak out in the morning.”  
  
“Yeah.” Goddamn, that’s hot.  
  
“And you’re going to think, _that’s my boyfriend_ –“  
  
Eames comes on the sheets and on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur’s finger stays for a few more seconds and then withdraws, carefully, and when the finger’s out and Eames’ heart has slowed down a little, he realises Arthur’s kind of laughing at him.  
  
“You little shit.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, raising his hand and stroking Eames’ hair. “It’s nice to know what gets you going. So far, it’s poking at my bruises and calling me your boyfriend.”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath.  
  
“I don’t mind.”  
  
He kisses Arthur.  
  
“We could do roleplay, if you want,” Arthur says, his lips brushing against the corner of Eames’ mouth. “Like at the hospital. You can call me your husband.”  
  
“That wasn’t…”  
  
Arthur kisses him firmly.  
  
“It’s not that I’d like to own you or anything,” Eames says, “it’s just that –“  
  
“That you like it. The thought of it.”  
  
“I would never hurt –“  
  
“I’ll get to know your every embarrassing secret,” Arthur says, his fingers on Eames’ neck, “every stupid thing that turns you on, everything.”  
  
“There’re quite a few of those, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Well, I’m going to make a list.”  
  
He kisses Arthur. Arthur’s stupid. Arthur’s just trying to annoy him, only it isn’t working, because he’s not annoyed, he’s sleepy. He kisses Arthur a few more times and then pulls back before he’s going to fucking collapse on Arthur and break whatever is left of Arthur’s ribs. And then he thinks, Arthur’s probably not trying to annoy him. It’s just that Arthur is like that. Arthur’s snappy. Arthur’s sharp. Arthur’s lovely.  
  
Arthur’s falling asleep in Eames’ bed, his left hand holding Eames’ wrist loosely enough that it doesn’t feel like they’re holding hands.

 

**

 

They’re sitting in the backyard, in the kitchen chairs Eames dragged there this morning. It’s probably going to rain soon but now the sky is just averagely grey and the wind is cold and wet. Arthur has three pullovers on and he looks so mortified about it that Eames can’t look at him for too long, because otherwise he’s going to start laughing and Arthur will be so angry, and he doesn’t want Arthur to be angry, not now.  
  
“James?”  
  
For a second, he doesn’t realise who James is. Then he remembers that it’s him, it’s the version of him living in this house, and that his neighbour is trying to talk to him over the fence.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ainsworth.”  
  
“Isn’t it, James,” Mrs. Ainsworth says, “it’s not raining almost at all. And who’s this lovely young man, then?”  
  
“Well,” Eames says, glancing at Arthur, who’s quite apparently wearing Eames’ clothes and doesn’t really look like a friend who just dropped by to visit, “well, this is –“  
  
“I’m his boyfriend,” Arthur says, sounding much more American than he usually does. It’s horrifying, the accent. Just horrifying.  
  
Eames can’t stop smiling.  
  
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Ainsworth says, “thank God. I’ve never seen anyone but James in this backyard. I was getting a bit worried, a man of his age, you know, and no relationships… I’ve been wondering if perhaps he has trouble finding company because, you know, this is a small town, after all. Not like London or America. There aren’t so many gay men here. But obviously, I’m glad that he’s found you, dear, you seem lovely. You can keep him young. And perhaps make him do something about the backyard, it’s terrible to look at, really, he doesn’t even have any flowers, did you notice? No wonder he always looks so sad.”  
  
“Mrs. Ainsworth,” Eames says, only his voice comes out quite bleak.  
  
“Well, then,” Mrs. Ainsworth says, taking a step back from the fence, “I’ll let you boys get back into it. Whatever it is that you lot do. I’m not nosy. Just, if you want to come to tea some time, just ring the bell. I have cinnamon and vanilla, and my niece found these really good biscuits at the Tesco –“  
  
“Good day, Mrs. Ainsworth,” Eames says.  
  
“And tell your boyfriend to be nice to you,” Mrs. Ainsworth says, pointing at Arthur. “You seem like a good lad.”  
  
“Thank you,” Arthur says, his voice perfectly polite, and then, thank God, Mrs. Ainsworth retreats to her house. Arthur drops the accent. “She seems nice.”  
  
“She is,” Eames says. The curtains are moving at Mrs. Ainsworth’s window. “Maybe we should go back in.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Arthur says and stands up, flinching.  
  
“I could carry you, you know,” Eames says, “if walking hurts.”  
  
Arthur laughs but grabs his elbow. It’s beginning to rain.

**Author's Note:**

> You can say hi to me on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!


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